Chapter 8 No.8

Clinton didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the gun as if it were a mildly interesting piece of modern art.

"Shoot me, Jairo," Clinton said softly. "But know this. My security team has a lock on you from the bridge. You pull that trigger, you and your men turn into pink mist before I hit the ground."

Red laser dots appeared on Jairo's chest. One. Two. Five.

Jairo looked down at the dots. He looked at Clinton's calm face.

He lowered the gun.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You win this round, Collier. But the investigation continues. If I find out she knows the code... I'll burn this ship down."

"Fair enough," Clinton said. "Now, get off my deck."

Jairo holstered his weapon. He walked over to Isela, who was still huddled by the landing skids.

He leaned down and wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with his thumb.

"Pray, Doctor," he whispered. "Pray he never gets tired of you."

Jairo boarded the helicopter. His men followed.

The chopper lifted off, banking hard to the west.

Clinton watched it go. Then he turned to Isela.

She tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She slumped back against the skid.

Clinton signaled. Two of his personal guards approached.

"Get the handcuffs off her," he ordered.

The guard unlocked the cuffs. Isela rubbed her raw wrists.

"Thank you," she breathed. "You saved me."

Clinton looked down at her. "Get up."

Isela forced herself to stand. She swayed.

Clinton caught her elbow. His grip was bruising.

"Don't thank me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear. "You manipulated me in front of my business partner. I don't like being manipulated."

Isela swallowed hard. "I had to."

"Yes. You did." Clinton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the blood from her neck. His touch was clinical, yet intimate. "And because you survived, you are now my problem."

"I can work," Isela said quickly. "I can pay off the debt."

"Money is irrelevant," Clinton said. He dropped the bloody handkerchief on the deck. "You need a reason to be here that Jairo respects. A reason that explains why I would risk war for you."

"What reason?"

"You are no longer a surgeon," Clinton said. "You are my private Caretaker."

Isela frowned. "Caretaker?"

"My health is... fragile," Clinton said, his eyes darkening. "You are the only thing that works. You belong to me now. Body, mind, and soul."

"That sounds like slavery," Isela whispered.

"It's survival," Clinton corrected. "For both of us."

He turned and began to walk toward the interior doors.

"Follow me," he commanded. "We have paperwork to sign."

Isela looked at the open sky one last time. Then she looked at Clinton's retreating back.

She followed him.

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